


you just beg to see me dance just one more time

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrés de Fonollosa Crying, Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Blood and Injury, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Martín almost dies, Pizza, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: They take him for some fool, who’s supposed to obediently do his part before they get rid of him again. Well, what if he beat them to it?
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 29
Kudos: 204





	you just beg to see me dance just one more time

**Author's Note:**

> What follows is a mixture of a prompt I once got on tumblr and some inspiration from the twitter bunch. xx  
> Please for the love of God read the tags before you jump in.  
> Dance Monkey is my j a m, don't @ me.

Martín is panting heavily when Helsinki slides off of him and flops onto his back, eyes fluttering close in contentment.

“Nice,” Martín says, grinning, patting the man’s sweaty arm. Helsinki smiles and ruffles his hair, and Martín thinks: _maybe I could get used to it._

It’s been two weeks since they started fucking and it’s been purely physical, but Martín notices that he really, genuinely likes the big Serb, as rough around the edges as he is. Helsinki is nice. In itself, it’s not anything special, but Helsinki is nice _to Martín._ That doesn’t happen very often, especially since Andrés and Sergio dragged him back into their lives to help them get some dumb kid out of prison and introduced him to _la banda._ As much as Bogotá and Marsella fit into the team, more or less, Martín really doesn’t. They’re suspicious of him, and for good reason - he knows _Berlín_ after all and yet, he wasn’t involved in the first heist.

Helsinki is not suspicious. Helsinki is caring and playful. Helsinki doesn’t ask him about Andrés.

It’s a relief, because he can see the way everyone else looks at them. As much as Berlín keeps bantering with the team, he doesn’t talk much to Palermo and if he tries, Palermo does his best not to engage.

He’s _done_. Andrés had torn him apart, twice. Once, by throwing him out and then, by letting him believe he was dead for three years. When Andrés and Sergio appeared on his doorstep a month ago, Sergio had to physically restrain Martín, because he wanted to _murder_ Andrés. He shivers at the memory of how pathetic he was, screaming and crying, of how _humiliating_ it was to have them see the mess that was his apartment, the mess that was Martín himself.

“Palermo?” Helsinki pulls him out of his thoughts as he gets up and looks down on him. “All good?”

“Yes, big guy. All good over here.”

Helsinki leaves a moment later and Martín wonders if maybe he would’ve let him stay if it wasn’t for the upcoming heist.

Martín ignores the looks he gets both from Sergio and Nairobi when he walks into the kitchen the next day. Sergio seems troubled, Nairobi - pissed. It’s none of their fucking business. He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and heads back to his room.

On his way, however, he hears voices coming from the room Helsinki shares with Nairobi. He frowns slightly and slows his steps. It’s mostly one voice talking now and he recognizes it as Andrés’.

Now that’s fucking weird.

He steps closer to the door, quietly, holding his breath.

“Helsinki, you are not only a good soldier, but a good man. A good man all around. I care about your happiness,” Andrés is saying and Martín’s confusion is infinite, because _since when_. “Which is why I want to warn you about Palermo.”

Whatever miserable, battered, bruised little thing is beating in Martín’s chest, it sinks instantly.

“What do you mean?” he hears Helsinki ask, his tone careful and guarded, a little bit defensive.

“Palermo,” Andrés continues and the city name sounds like it were sitting uncomfortably in his mouth and he needed to spit it out, “is broken. He’s not for you to fix. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

 _Broken._ Well, Andrés would know. But Martín doesn’t want Helsinki to fix him. He’s done a lot of fixing himself. He only needs- company, he realizes. He only needs some company.

“Palermo is nice to me.”

“Is he now? Listen, Helsinki, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I’ve known him for years,” Andrés’ tone takes on a note of fake compassion, now. “He uses people. He’s miserable and he’s going to make you miserable as well. He only cares about himself.”

Martín feels sick; Andrés is the one to talk, really. So what if he’s using the other man. So what if he has nothing to offer but misery. So what if he’s being selfish.

Helsinki must still be looking unconvinced, because Andrés heaves a sigh.

“Am I not a good leader? Have I not proven myself loyal? Don’t attach yourself to Palermo, you deserve someone better. Has he even kissed you?”

“... no,” Helsinki sounds small and Martín has had enough of a reminder what a horrible person he is. He turns on his heel and heads for his room.

He slams the door behind himself, blinded by fury. He wonders if Andrés has done that only to hurt him, to take even more from him, or if maybe he _does_ in fact worry about Helsinki since Martín is so fucking broken, apparently. Truth is, Andrés doesn’t even know half of it. None of them do.

They take him for some fool, who’s supposed to obediently do his part before they get rid of him again. Well, what if he beat them to it?

Martín laughs at the idea, but as he paces the room, he finds that it makes sense. The biggest _fuck you_ he could give them. How fun would it be for them to have their first casualty even before entering the Bank?

He loves the plan, he _craves_ to get his hands on the gold, but all of this just seems to be a cruel mockery of his dreams, of his past. He’s forced to sit in the same chapel that has witnessed the best moments of his life, as well as the worst of it. It’s where Andrés has kissed him, where he’s _left him_ and now, he’s forced to sit there with a bunch of strangers, listening to _Sergio_ , of all people. He’s forced to walk the same halls as five years ago, more lonely than ever, more hurt than ever, and Andrés dares to try and take the one thing that makes it somehow sufferable.

The monastery used to feel like home, Andrés used to feel like home, and now, he feels out of place; more unwanted than ever. There’s really nothing else to do; nothing but to break the bottle and put a piece of it to his forearm. He does just that and then a sudden clarity of mind stops him. The glass piece has ragged, thick edges. Not fit for the job, he decides.

His hands don’t shake as he looks through the drawers until he finds a small knife he used to open envelopes with, in what seems now a different lifetime. He tests the sharpness, first; the knife opens the skin on the top of his hand easily. Good enough.

He moves the blade to his forearm and slashes just once, vertically, from his wrist all the way up to the crook of his elbow; the pain is insane and it makes him whimper, but he knows he’s not only hurting himself. He’s hurting _them_ or, at the very least, inconveniencing them greatly.

His knees give out and he falls onto them before sliding all the way to the floor. He marvels at how fast it goes; how his gaze gets blurry, how the pain lessens, how much blood is running down his arm, how the darkness overwhelming him seems warm and welcoming.

How it all goes away, just like that.  
  


Walking out of the room, Andrés hears a muffled crash. He guesses that it must be Martín, although getting drunk and destructive so early in the morning seems over the top, even for him.

He decides to go and chastise him, since he had promised Sergio that he would control Martín, which is exactly what he’s been trying to do just now, by talking to Helsinki.

He can’t have Martín whoring himself out to a member of the team. First, because it creates unnecessary tension, dangerous in the face of the task ahead of them. Second, because Martín belongs to _him._

As he walks down the corridor, he lets himself hope that they will get out of the Bank alive and that he’ll be able to _properly_ deal with Martín’s grudge against him, which is not entirely unfounded, but ridiculous nevertheless.

He opens the door and he realizes that none of this may ever happen, because he finds Martín bleeding out on the floor. Unconscious. Still.

Andrés’ muscles act before he has any time to think; he falls to his knees and grabs the edge of the sheet on Martín’s bed. He sees the deep cut on his arm and as he wraps the corner of the sheet tightly around it, pressing down with all he has, he sees the knife and he realizes-

_Martín has done it to himself, Martín has cut himself open, Martín has made himself bleed so much, so much, so much._

There’s so much blood.

His voice sounds muffled to his own ears as he yells for someone to come, quick. He yells again; it sounds the same, but it works, because a moment later, Sergio and Helsinki - of course, Helsinki - barge into the room.

Sergio takes one look, curses and runs back out - he comes back with a first aid kit, while Helsinki kneels down next to Andrés, his own hands pressing onto the wound.

What happens next is a blur of desperation and sharp focus, the three of them working together to stop the bleeding and then, suture the cut. It’s so _deep,_ Andrés realizes, and it’s long and it’s going to leave such an ugly scar. He looks up at Martín’s face, white as the sheets soaked in his blood, and he has to look away because he’s never seen the other so fragile.

When Helsinki is finishing up with the stitching, Sergio pulls Andrés to his feet.

“Go wash up, get changed. We’ve got this,” he mutters and Andrés realizes that not only his hands are covered in blood, but it has also soaked through his pants, because he’s been kneeling right in the puddle of it.

He takes another look at Martín, but then nods and leaves the room. He goes to the bathroom and stands in front of the sinks, looking down at his hands.

They’re shaking, violently so.

He turns on the faucet and starts scrubbing his hands with soap, the water turning pink even though the blood _doesn’t seem to come off_.

His movements get desperate as he tries to rub it all off and a sob surprises him when it tears its way out of his throat, quickly followed by another one. His vision gets blurry, tears start falling into the sink and Andrés is shaking; he realizes that he’s in _pain_ , that he got so _frightened,_ that he got _this close_ to losing Martín _._ He grabs the edges of the sink, bowing his head, trying to stop himself from crying and failing miserably. His hands are still red- he realizes that it’s not blood anymore, it’s just that he has been rubbing at them so hard and scratching with his nails in an attempt to wash it all off.

It takes him a good while to stop sobbing. He goes to his room, then, picks up some fresh clothes and goes back to the bathroom to take a shower. He stands there, under the stream of water, looking down as the blood from the rest of his body washes away. He thinks about Martín, about the way he was when they’ve finally met again.

Andrés really thought Martín would’ve moved on with his life. He didn’t necessarily _like_ the thought, but it would have been best for him.

He presses his forehead against the cold tiles and closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. Martín needs him, that’s clear. However, he realizes that he also needs Martín, that he craves to go to him for comfort; it was comforting, having him by his side for years, being able to touch him and talk to him. He _misses_ Martín.

He stays in the shower for far longer than necessary.  
  


Sergio is _fucking exhausted._ He’s been staring at Martín for half an hour after they’ve moved him to the bed and cleaned the floor. Helsinki changed Martín’s clothes, gently putting him in the ones he usually wore as pyjamas.

The whole gang is shocked and nobody seems to know anything about why the hell would Martín do something like that. Sergio has a feeling it must’ve been about Andrés, because, well, who else?

He feels guilty, he realizes, looking down at Martín’s horribly pale face. He knew that bringing him along would be a risk, but he should’ve realized that Martín was suicidal. He should’ve seen it coming.

He heaves a sigh and decides to take a nap; there’s no point in trying to go further with the classes. Sergio goes back to his own room. Just as he lies down, Raquel walks in, her brow furrowed in worry. She sits down next to him and runs a hand through his hair.

“You saved his life, you know,” she says and Sergio shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  
  
By the time he wakes up, it’s already late afternoon. He takes a cold shower, first, scrubbing off some dried blood that found its way underneath his nails without him realizing it before. Then, he goes to check up on Martín.

The sight that welcomes him once he steps into the room is bizarre, but only somewhat surprising. Martín is still unconscious, lying motionless under the covers, but Andrés is there, too; he’s lying on top of him, his whole body on the bed, his head on Martín’s chest. He looks pale, too, and tired, and his eyes are red-rimmed which is a _very_ rare occurrence. His gaze is fiery, though, making him look wild; like an animal. At first Sergio thinks that what he sees in his brother’s eyes is fury that he can’t direct anywhere so it burns inside of him; then, he realizes that it’s fear, too.

Andrés looks angry and terrified.

“What in the world,” Sergio asks, “are you doing?”

“I want to feel him breathing.”

The phrase cuts through Sergio like a knife. He sits down beside the bed and reaches out to put a hand against Andrés’ cheek.

“You’re not sending him away,” Andrés says, eyes ablaze.

“I can’t, really. He knows too much. Besides, believe it or not, I don’t want Martín dead. I never did.”

“You made me leave him.”

“I didn’t _make_ you do anything. And how could I ever have realized how much it would affect him? Even you had no idea. Other than that, I was right. He’s in love with you and-... he’s making you vulnerable, too.”

Andrés stares at him, one of his hands fisting in the fabric of Martín’s sleeve where it’s resting against his shoulder. Sergio holds his gaze.

“I’ll take care of him,” Andrés says finally, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m not losing him, not here and not in the Bank, and not later.”

“To be honest, we don’t have much choice on the matter,” Sergio sighs. He strokes Andrés’ cheek with his thumb and then moves away, taking one last look at Martín’s face before walking out.

  
  
Andrés doesn’t move. It’s like the weight of the time they’ve spent apart is crushing him, so he holds onto Martín and waits for each weak breath that he takes.

Some time after Sergio has left, Helsinki steps into the room. He stops in the doorway, looking at them, and then lets out a small _oh_ as if he’s just understood something.

Andrés tenses up, wanting to throw the other man out, because what does he think, that he can care for Martín better than Andrés does? Helsinki doesn’t even know his _name._

He forces himself to relax, though, because he’s a leader and he doesn’t let himself forget about it. Luckily, Helsinki is nothing but respectful towards his authority, so he doesn’t come closer.

“You were right,” he says. “Palermo is very sad.”

“Yes,” is all Andrés says, narrowing his eyes. Helsinki doesn’t look away, although he shifts awkwardly.

“I don’t know what happened, but if you care about people, you should show them.”

What follows is a heavy silence.

“Leave.”

It’s an order, so Helsinki complies. Andrés grits his teeth - he does care and he does show it. Helsinki doesn’t know anything about him and Martín.

  
  
An hour later, Andrés is almost falling asleep when Martín takes a shorter breath and stirs.

“Andrés..?” his voice is weak and raspy, and Andrés immediately looks up to see that Martín is staring down at him. Now, Andrés is great at controlling his emotions, but he feels like sobbing again at the sight of Martín’s eyes. One could say they’re like the sea, but to Andrés, they’re more like the ocean - a blue so deep it makes him crave to drown in it.

“Go fuck yourself,” is the next thing Martín says and Andrés is immediately snapped back into reality.

“Excuse me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Martín repeats, but his voice is croaky so Andrés pulls himself up and away to sit at the edge of the bed. He props Martín up, ignoring his wincing, and puts a glass of water that he had waiting on the nightstand to his mouth.

Martín takes a few gulps before weakly pushing Andrés’ hand away. Andrés frowns, but before he can speak, the door opens and Nairobi walks in.

  
  
Now, Nairobi is not surprised at the sight before her, because she has seen the looks and she’s not a fucking idiot, thank you very much.

“You’re awake. Good,” she says and she _means_ it, Palermo may be a piece of garbage, but she does feel for him. “We’re just finishing making pizza.”

“Get out,” is all Palermo says and she goes from chill to pissed in approximately one second.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to be left alone to enjoy Berlín’s attention, or do you want to just wallow in despair, like you always do?” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. Both of the bastards at least have the decency to look surprised before Palermo’s face turns into a scowl.

“You’re welcome to take him with you on your way out. I don’t need a pity party,” he growls, looking away. Nairobi huffs and walks to the other side of the bed to face him.

“Maybe if you stopped being such an asshole, you would’ve noticed that everyone here cares about you. Whether you want it or not, you’re part of the team. Hell, Denver even _likes_ you.”

Palermo frowns, dropping his gaze again. Nairobi turns her attention to Berlín, then.

“And you,” she says, pointing an accusatory finger. “We are going to have a talk, later.”

Berlín snorts at her, but it has no effect on her, not anymore. There’s a knock on the door and she grins.

“Come on in, they won’t bite.”

  
  
That’s how Martín finds himself recovering from a suicide attempt with the whole gang in his room, eating pizza that’s way too greasy, talking way too loudly. Not only that, Andrés still doesn’t move from where he’s lying on top of him, watching everyone like a hawk.

“Somebody get him off of me,” Martín groans.

“Nobody dare to move,” Andrés hisses immediately.

“Looks like you’ve domesticated Berlín,” Denver says, his laugh piercing through Martín’s skull. He waits for Andrés’ retort, but it doesn’t come.

“Palermo,” Sergio clears his throat and Martín closes his eyes, waiting for whatever embarrassing, awkward thing is going to come next. “If my brother is crushing you, I can remove him by force.”

His eyes snap open and before he knows it, he’s laughing, along with most of the team. It feels strange, because it’s an honest laughter, with no malice behind it. Sergio gives him a small smile and Martín remembers those moments when they would get along. He realizes that he misses them; that he wants them back.

He hasn’t experienced happiness in so long that he’s forgotten how good it feels.

The others stay for maybe an hour before they start leaving, one by one, wishing a good night. Before Helsinki walks out, he steps closer to the bed and touches Martín’s forehead with a big, warm hand. Martín forces himself not to flinch away and looks up at him.

“Say,” he begins, quietly, “did you believe what Berlín was saying?”

Andrés tenses up against him and Helsinki’s eyes widen in surprise. Then, a deep sadness settles on his face.

“I had to think,” he says slowly. “But no, I don’t believe it. I think Berlín doesn’t believe it, either.”

With that, he leaves. He’s the last to walk out and the room is silent now.

“Look, Martín-” Andrés begins after a minute or so but Martín just laughs, the sound a little wet and a little desperate. When he speaks, his voice is breaking and disgustingly weak still.

“No, no, it’s fine, really. Although I didn’t really expect for you to try and keep on hurting me, because, wait, how did you phrase it? _Distance is the only way to find peace_? Good one. And don’t think for a second that I wanted to kill myself over a few words, no, it’s been long in the making. I’ve been wanting to die for five years now, how fun is that? _So fun,_ Andrés. So fun of you to keep tossing me around like trash. I’ve had enough of that, you know? That’s what it was. I’ve had enough. Either keep me around or let me go, or kill me yourself. I would love that for us, to be honest. You like romance, don’t you? How romantic would that be? Just to be clear, I never asked for romance, did I now? Did I make a move on you before you said you _loved_ me? Before you said we were _soulmates_? No, because, you fucking asshole, I wanted to stay by your side. You denied me that. And now, you’re what, you’re denying me Helsinki? _Fuck you_.”

He goes quiet, because Andrés has moved closer, pressing his face into the crook of Martín’s neck, his breath heavy.

“... I was jealous,” he mutters.

“... Excuse me, _what_?”

“I said,” Andrés says and raises his head; there are tears on his cheeks and Martín has no idea what is happening. “That I was jealous. Because I’ve missed you. Because I want you back. I’m not letting Helsinki take care of you, because _I_ am the one who’s going to do that.”

“You threw me out, Andrés!” Martín almost yells, because none of it is making any sense.

“To keep you safe. It turned out that I cared for you more than for the plan. It’s terrifying, Martín. You don’t realize how much you’ve scared me today. I would rather have you away from me than dead. But I can’t have you here if you’re not _mine_.”

Martín stares. He’s getting tearful, just like the last time, and he hates it.

“What the fuck do you mean,” he manages to choke out, “ _yours_?”

“I love you. I wasn’t lying about that,” Andrés says and reaches out to push back the strands of hair falling onto Martín’s forehead.

Martín is quiet. He’s afraid to open his mouth lest he ends up sobbing. He gives himself a minute, maybe more, staring into Andrés’ eyes, staring at the tears glistening where they’re sticking to his lashes.

“Andrés,” he says finally. “I literally can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Andrés blinks and lets out a sigh, nodding. He finally pulls himself up and sits back. Martín licks his lips nervously before deciding to dive right in, _one last time_.

He scoots to the side and pulls away the covers with his good arm.

In a beat, Andrés is right there next to him, pressed to his side, taking his face in hands and kissing him, not like back then; it’s more desperate, a series of kisses that aren’t more than lips pressing against lips, over and over again.

“Don’t leave me,” Andrés says, his voice deep and filled with more emotion than Martín has ever heard it. “Don’t ever leave me, don’t you dare.”

“I won’t,” he promises, “I won’t.”

  
  
Andrés stays in Martín’s room for the night; they sleep wrapped up in each other and when Andrés wakes up at some point, he can finally breathe in Martín’s scent, pull him closer and go back to sleep.

He kisses the bandages on his forearm in the morning and when it turns out that Martín is able to walk, and when he _insists_ on walking like the stubborn bastard that he is, Andrés wraps an arm around his waist and leads him outside, where the team is having breakfast.

The looks that they get are nowhere near as surprised as Andrés would have expected.

“I’m still kicking your ass for being emotionally constipated and for manipulating Helsi,” Nairobi hisses at him when they sit down and Martín smirks. She throws him a look, too. “You aren’t off the hook, either. Isn’t that right, Helsinki?”

Andrés follows her gaze to where Helsinki is sitting, munching on a sandwich. The man shrugs.

“If Palermo is happy, it’s okay.”

Andrés gives him half a smile. Martín shifts next to him, squeezing his wrist under the table.

“If there was one thing Berlín was right about, it’s that you are too good to me, big guy,” he says softly. “How about we find you some nice hostage in the Bank, huh? It seems to have worked for Denver.”

Andrés watches Martín as him and Denver start arguing about Stockholm syndrome. Martín is still pale, still ghostly, but there’s that mischievous smirk on his lips again.

He may look fragile, but Andrés realizes just how strong he really is. He lets himself hope they’re going to be alright, after all.


End file.
